Fate On The Disc
by Lord Mist
Summary: Death has some unexpected visitors, and it seems a war for the omnipotent, wish-granting Holy Grail is about to begin...but what puzzles Death the most is: why are there always chessboards? And how does the little horsey move?
1. How Does the Horsey Move?

A late homage to Sir Pterry! And about my other stories, I'll get around to them...soon...ish...

Obviously, I don't own anything.

* * *

NO, said the skeletal figure, QUITE FRANKLY, I CAN'T SEE IT.

The rodent-like creature on his desk squeaked angrily and tapped the dials on the machine with a paw. The Death of Rats was a beast proud of his inventions.

NOW, NOW. chided Death. IT'S VERY CLEVER OF YOU, BUT I DON'T THINK I'LL BE USING A CLOTHES-WASHER. He – for Death, although a _concept_ more than a being, looked vaguely male – gestured at his tattered robe that seemed to be made of darkness itself. I THINK IT MIGHT SHRINK IN THE WASH.

This idyllic domestic scene, such as could have played out in a billion billion homes galaxywide, was nevertheless interrupted by a polite cough from Death's butler, Albert. "There are some…existences come to see you, sir."

The choice of words left the listeners with no doubt as to what Albert thought of the visitors.

ARE THERE? Death turned around. A blue portal shimmered before his eyes, and beings began to step out. YES, I SUPPOSE THERE ARE.

The first few were known to Death, although he would have been perfectly happy without their company. These were the Auditors of Reality; the powerful forces that were in charge of making sure things happened in an organized manner as they should. Of course, sentient life tended to destroy their calculations, and they had been known to do their best to eradicate it where they could.

 _We have brought_ , said one, _someone to see you_.

OH? NORMALLY I GO TO THEM.

The last figure that stepped out was humanoid as well. Man-shaped, but horrifically scarred and burned, each inch of his flesh mutilated or tattooed, and his eyes seemingly dark pits into the void that glinted with malevolence. Death eyed him with some interest.

GOOD AFTERNOON. WOULD YOU LIKE SOME TEA?

"I," announced the man, "am Angra Mainyu."

ARE YOU? asked Death, politely.

This seemed to discomfort the man. "I am All the World's Evil."

Death considered this. EVIL ISN'T A CONCEPT. IT LIES WITHIN EVERY HUMAN, TROLL, DWARF, VAMPIRE, IGOR, WEREWOLF, NAC MAC FEEGLE, NOBBY NOBBS, OR-

An Auditor interjected, before Death could list every sentient species that existed. _He is All the Roundworld's Evil. The Humans there created him._

Death considered making a remark along the lines that they must have been terribly bored to come up with something like this, but passed on it.

"Tell me," asked All The Roundworld's Evil pompously, "have you heard of the Holy Grail?"

GRAIL? YOU SAY HOLY GRAIL?

"Yes, Grail."

NO, SORRY.

"It is-"

I HAVE HEARD OF THE HOLY QUAIL, THOUGH. THEY BELIEVE IN IT IN A CORNER OF BHANG BHANGDUC. DO YOU KNOW, asked Death, warming to his theme, THE BURIAL RITUALS THERE? FEATHERS EVERYWHERE. I KEEP LEAVING A TRAIL OF QUAIL DOWN EACH TIME I RETURN FROM THE PLACE. ALBERT DOESN'T LIKE IT VERY MUCH.

"It is," cut in Angra Mainyu loudly, over Death's monologue, "an artifact that can grant one wish to the victor of a combat known as a Holy Grail War."

JUST ONE? EVEN THE MOST MISERLY GENIES OFFER THREE.

"Nevertheless." continued the personification of the Roundworld's evil, "we bring to you a challenge from the Roundworld." He grinned – and when you are All the World's Evil, there's only a few ways you can grin – evilly, malevolently, cunningly or similar. "Select your seven champions and we will have ours. The winning side will make a wish; and of course," he smirked, "prove which world is better."

Death sighed. This all seemed too complicated to him. LOOK, WOULD IT SAVE TIME IF I ADMITTED YOUR WORLD WAS BETTER? I'VE GOT THINGS TO DO, PLACES TO BE, PEOPLE TO REAP…

This seemed to surprise his listeners, but one Auditor spoke quickly before Death ordered them off his realm. _The Gods will have a different opinion. And it is your duty to tell them._

Death sighed, an echoing sound reminiscent of a churchbell ringing over a graveyard at midnight. WAIT HERE.

He winked out of existence.

* * *

"Of courthe we mutht take up the challenge! They'd think we were cowardth!" spat Offler, the Crocodile God; not out of vehemence, but simply because when you had a crocodile's head and fangs, pronouncing certain syllables without drenching the immediate area was slightly difficult.

IS THAT SO IMPORTANT?

"To a god, it is." said Blind Io, as his eyes hovered above his head. Death considered this and saw the truth of it. Gods were formed out of the belief of mortals; and if word got around that the gods had backed out of a challenge issued from some backwater world where they didn't even know what octarine was, it would certainly shake some of the theological foundations. Not that it mattered to Death of course. Whether you believed in him or not, he would come for you.

"So, I understand we are to select our champions?" smiled a beautiful woman, her emerald eyes glittering. "I certainly have a few suggestions."

"You would." griped a portly man beside her, his eyes completely black.

Offler stood up and placed his hands on the table, knocking aside some of the pieces on it. "Tho, letht come to a-"

Far away, a hero suddenly fell off a cliff. In another corner of the disc, a troll woke up to find it had suddenly turned a shade of vivid pink.

"Excuse me." coughed Blind Io. "I believe I am the Chief God."

"Of courthe, of courthe, jutht thpeeding up the process-"

"I'm perfectly capable of doing it on my own-"

"No doubt, but thith thituation callth for-"

"Let me decide what it calls for-"

Death sighed again. This would take a while.

"Thut up or I'll poke your eyeth out and then you'll really be blind-"

"I'll make a suitcase out of you-"

* * *

Death winked back into existence in a shower of blue sparks, and eyed them speculatively to make sure they didn't make his rug catch fire.

Of course, due to the nature of time, it being an abstract manmade invention that the gods or Death had no need of, the entire discussion took but a second in the eyes of the waiting Auditors-plus-one. That is, a metaphorical second since as mentioned previously time has no meaning – well, you get the point.

Angra Mainyu smiled maliciously, and gestured with his hand. A chessboard fizzed into existence between the two figures. Death glared balefully at it.

WHY IS IT ALWAYS ONE OF THESE?

"The symbolism, I expect, sir." suggested Albert, who was quietly observing the guests to make sure they didn't steal any of the cutlery.

I HOPE YOU DON'T EXPECT ME TO PLAY. I CAN NEVER REMEMBER HOW THE HORSEY IS SUPPOSED TO MOVE.

Angra Mainyu ignored him. "Let us reveal our champions, then." He gestured theatrically. "Assassin, the Servant skilled in subterfuge, espionage and…"

ASSASSINATION?

"Yes, that." glared All the World's Evil. "Behold, Hassan-i-Sabbah, the man whose name lives on as the title for all practitioners of the art!" A piece was laid on the board, a black-cloaked man with a bone-white mask.

IS IT MY TURN NOW? OH VERY WELL. HERE.

A piece was laid on the board – but all it had was a pedestal.

"What? I can't even see your Assassin!"

ISN'T THAT SORT OF THE POINT? asked Death politely.

( "Athathin…well…I mean…" Offler looked around at the assembled gods. They looked shiftily back at him.

"He is the best Assassin they've ever trained." offered one.

"But…he's… _him_ , you know?"

This seemed to sum up the sentiment in the room. If he didn't know better, an unbiased observer might even have suggested that the gods looked nervous. But that, of course, would be blasphemous.

"He would make a good leader for our side." insisted yet another.

Blind Io nodded, setting all his hundreds of floating eyes bobbing up and down simultaneously. )

"Cheap tricks." Angra Mainyu was dismissive. "Here is my Caster, the Servant of Magic." This time, the piece was a tall man, flamboyantly dressed and with wide, bulging eyes. Angra Mainyu grinned. There might have been more powerful choices, but this one – this one was a man after his own black heart.

With an ominous _clack_ , Death placed his piece down, and Angra Mainyu nodded; this one, at least, looked like a witch. Although she did seem a bit old…

("My dear Lady," said Fate. "You are outvoted on this one."

She turned her nose up, and crossed her arms in a huff. But she would wait, and she would make sure her preferred choice got in somehow…)

"Berserker." A huge man, impossibly muscled by anyone's standards. If he had been on Discworld, trolls would have unthinkingly accepted him as one of their own.

 _Clack_. Angra Mainyu considered it. A man in dented armour. Not particularly well built. Slightly greying. He dismissed him. Who would prove a challenge to Heracles after all?

("Him." said Fate.

"But there are tho many other good bertherkers….he'th not even a hero!"

"Him." repeated Fate, and his black eyes glittered.

"Hah!" said the Lady. "He just wants him because he's one of Fate's tools."

"Nothing of the sort."

"Hah! He makes sure no one avoids the consequences for their actions, and you deny supporting him?")

"Lancer." A slim man dressed in blue. He held a red spear that pulsed evilly.

 _Clack_. Angra Mainyu stared at the selected champion carefully. The first thing that drew his attention was how old the man seemed to be. The second thing…

"Is that a _broom_?!"

("Well, there's La'ortez the Light-Footed Lancer." suggested one god.

"Wasn't he the one who charged into a horde of trolls on his own?"

"Well…yes, but it was very _heroic_."

"Altho very thtupid. It'th not the thort of thing we want."

They pondered this for a while.

"Excuse me," coughed a particularly bright god, "but does it _have_ to be a lance?")

"Rider." Another well-built man, broad-shouldered and red-haired, with a fierce grin.

 _Clack._ Angra Mainyu sputtered, "No, I said Rider."

THIS ONE _IS_ RIDER.

"He has a hat that says he's a wizard!"

ACTUALLY, IT SAYS HE IS A WIZZARD.

"What?"

("Oh, so that's how it is?" Emerald eyes shone. "Fate gets his picks, you get yours, but I don't? Is it because I'm a woman?"

"My dear Lady-" began Blind Io.

"Don't you Lady me! Why not him, may I ask?"

"It thays Rider, hath he ridden anything?"

"Of course! Dragons, flying rocks, a spaceship…")

"Saber." Angra Mainyu grinned as he began revealing his trump cards. A petite blonde woman dressed in blue armour.

 _Clack_. Another old man. This one apparently didn't have teeth either. Angra Mainyu sighed. The victory seemed so easy now. So boring.

("Clearly we pick our best hero, correct?"

"He _did_ try to blow us up."

"He's still the best though.")

"And finally…Archer." Angra Mainyu couldn't help but gloat at this one; after the cheap trick with Assassin, he had decided to conceal identities, but this one…was special. "Gilgamesh, the King of Heroes." A golden man with red eyes and an arrogant sneer was placed on the board. "What is your ace, Death?" he asked mockingly.

 _Clack._ Angra Mainyu stared. And then stared some more. And then asked, flatly. "Really."

YES.

("Hrun the Barbarian!" shouted one god.

"Antioch the Antipodean Archer with Arthritis!" yelled another, punching the first one in the eye.

"The Ancient Ding'Ba the Eighty Fourth!" screamed a third, kicking the second in the groin.

"Bob!" bellowed a fourth, biting the third on the nose.

Death sighed for the third time and grabbed the dice on the board with a skeletal hand. WHERE IT FALLS, he boomed, THERE'S THE PICK.)

"A _monkey_?!"

APE, I THINK YOU'LL FIND.

* * *

 **Reviews are what I subsist on!**

So, what do you think? Oh, and don't worry about the exact details of the mechanics of the Grail and things...this is a Discworld mix, so, you know, rules bend a bit, details are blurred and so on and so forth.


	2. A Wizzard Afoot

A late homage to Sir Pterry! And about my other stories, I'll get around to them...soon...ish...

Obviously, I don't own anything.

* * *

"Well then," said the wizzard out loud, for that was what his sequined hat proclaimed him to be, "I'm out of here."

He _had_ considered his options very carefully. Waking up – no, waking up implied sleep – just suddenly _existing_ in what looked to be an abandoned city that he didn't recognize hadn't surprised him. He was too used to things like this; if he had merely woken up in his comfortable and totally unthreatening bed, he would have been quite shocked. It just was the sort of thing that happened to him.

Then he'd had an unexpected headache – which he considered quite unfair, seeing as he hadn't even had anything to drink – and information hit him, forced into his mind past the knowledge of how to scream in forty four languages and existing just below the skill of pretending to be a part of the scenery. He had paused for a second, considered the information, and his terror and resignation warred with each other, until self-preservation knocked them both on the heads and set his mind buzzing once more.

A tournament? One where people got _killed_? With seven really legendary enemies? No, this wouldn't do at all. He didn't even need this stupid wish. All he wanted was a nice boring life back in the halls of Unseen University where the worst thing that could happen to you was being turned into an orangutan, and even that had its benefits. He wistfully thought of his job there at the library. Hours and days and weeks just spent sitting quietly at a desk cataloguing books and eating the marvelously fattening food of the UU and sleeping in his nice, calm, peaceful bed, and being bored out of his mind the rest of the time – Paradise.

He glanced at the roads around him. There were two paths he could take. As he considered this, something just kept knocking away at the inside of his brain, telling him _go left, you daft wizard_. He ignored it with an effort of will, and defiantly turned right. Oh no. The gods weren't going to get him like this. He'd go right and keep walking until he was out of this place, and then keep running until he was somewhere else where a wizard wasn't called on for to fight in tournaments, and then he'd lie low and change his name and make a living there doing…well, doing something that wouldn't prove immediately fatal.

Now, he considered as he walked along the road, where was that stupid Luggage?

("He's just too easy to manipulate." smiled the Lady.

"Hmph." grunted Fate. "He's going to die where he's going.")

* * *

The Servants of the Roundworld had all been summoned – the word would still be used, even though their summoner was technically the grail itself – at roughly the same spot, in a large clearing at one end of the abandoned city.

Of course, this had been a bad idea. Heroes and legends didn't become heroes and legends by being nice, easygoing, agreeable people who got along with each other. And, of course, there was some lingering bad blood from the last few times they had met. Only a small amount, mind you.

"I WILL KILL YOU, ARCHER!"

Okay, perhaps a little bit more than that.

"Oh? The Grail has given you a third chance to become my possession, Saber. The Gods and Fate bow to the whims of the King of Heroes."

Rider roared his laughter. "Perhaps it is but luck!"

The golden Archer narrowed his eyes. "There is no such thing as luck when you are as magnificent as I. The world exists to serve me."

Lancer sighed. If you had told him he would have to be the sane person among the Servants, he would have laughed. "Now, we all have to work together-"

Berserker roared. Lancer didn't know what he meant, but he took it as a good sign that Berserker was standing relatively quietly without trying to eviscerate him.

"The Lancer speaks true." said the Hassan – Assassin – in a voice more eerily reminiscent of spiders skittering over a stone floor than anything human.

He glanced over at the prone form of their Caster, who was stretched out unconscious on the floor, having been floored by Saber before he could say a single 'Jeanne'. No, Lancer, sighed. This didn't seem good at all.

And then, all of a sudden, a figure stumbled out of an alley, running desperately like a man being chased by a rather vicious horde of dogs – and stopped in its tracks when it saw them. "Oh, bugger." it whispered.

* * *

The reason the wizzard was running along like a man being chased by a vicious horde of dogs, was, quite simply because he _had_ been chased by a vicious horde of dogs. His normal procedure in such situations was to climb a tree, but the footholds he made on any tree kept slipping, throwing him back onto the ground. So he had settled for the thing that had saved him for most of his life – running away.

When he had finally burst out of the winding maze of alleys, he discovered the dogs had stopped following him. This would have been a piece of pleasant news to anybody but him; he knew the only reason life would remove one threat was to confront him with something that made the other threat seem like a relaxing walk in the park.

And this time, he was faced with seven somethings that made vicious dogs seem like a walk in the park even when compared to a walk in the park.

"Oh, er…well then," said the wizzard, staring at the seven (well, six and one prone) figures arrayed in front of him. "Sorry to have bothered you. Must have taken the wrong turn. I'll – just be off-"

"A Servant!" boomed Rider.

This was quite unnecessary, for five of the six conscious Roundworld Servants knew what the figure in front of them was. (All Berserker knew was that he would wait until fighting started, and then go in and crush everyone whoever they were) They stared thoughtfully at it, glancing over its tattered red robes, the crooked and badly sequined hat that spelt 'Wizzard' and the various pouches it held.

Assassin instantly disappeared from sight.

"So!" continued Rider, "Are you perhaps Caster, brave Servant? A noble Caster indeed to come so boldly into our lair!"

"Er…" said the wizard. "um…I'm Rincewind."

"Rincewind! So that is your name! A noble hero indeed, to boldly reveal your name to us! I shall return the favour! I am Iskander, also known as Alexander, of Macedon! The Rider of our side!"

"Er…pleased to meet you." mumbled Rincewind, shiftily eyeing the exits. Something struck him. "Rider. Right. Oh, I'm Rider too." He said this in the hope that there was some sort of Rider Guild that would prevent the large man from hurting him.

This only seemed to excite Iskander more. "Aha! Riders are such brave, valorous Servants! You must have been a renowned hero in your home!"

"Renowned…well," puffed Rincewind, still slightly out of breath from all the running, "you could say that."

"Enough." snapped the golden man, who had been glaring arrogantly at Rincewind. "Are you here to surrender?" Rincewind's spirits lifted briefly."If you are, I shall grant you a swift death." Instantly, they plummeted back down so fast that they almost broke the sound barrier.

"Of course he isn't here to surrender!" argued Iskander. "He is a confident warrior who seeks to face us all!"

Saber hmph-ed and drew her sword. "He still seems to be a wizard. Is that not what his hat says?"

Even in the face of almost certain death, this made Rincewind slightly happy. He had known the hat was a good idea. Even random enemies could spot he was a wizard. Still, he seized the initiative as best he could.

"Er…yes. I am a wizard, matter of fact." he tried a menacing tone, but wasn't sure quite how it came out. He wiggled his fingers. "So stay back or I shall…unleash strange and terrible magic upon you."

"You wield magic?" asked Rider, still seemingly enthusiastic. "What do you ride then? Magical beasts?"

"Oh yes." agreed Rincewind, inventing furiously. "Dozens of them. Hundreds, in fact. They'd eat you up and spit you out. So, watch out, that's what I'm saying."

Saber brandished her sword threateningly. "I have slain dragons. I fear not what you summon."

"You- you have? Er, uhm, I mean – my dragons are, y'know, trained to…avoid swords. They eat swords for breakfast and drink them for tea. Um, what I'm repeating is – oomph!"

Here, we must clarify for the benefit of the spectators. Rincewind wasn't going to repeat 'oomph.' In fact, he hadn't even said it once so far. The oomph was caused because, having been backing away slowly through this entire conversation, his feet hit an unfortunately placed stone, and he tumbled backwards, flailing his arms wildly.

It is at this point that we should examine what chance really means. Servants in the Holy Grail War have a parameter called 'Luck'. Generally, it is not considered to be that vital when you compare it with things like Strength, Endurance or Agility. Still, Luck plays a major role in battle. And had there been a Master around to look at Rincewind's statistics – they would have seen Luck marked: EX.

A millisecond before Rincewind fell, Assassin, who had seen his opportunity and taken it, broke his Concealment to stab forward at his head. The knife missed by inches since Rincewind's head was now falling down, being attached to his body, and one of the flailing arms caught Assassin under the chin. The combination of Rincewind's backwards momentum and his forwards one sent him careening over the form of Rincewind to land in a heap a few yards behind – where another carelessly placed stone caught him on the exact place where the edge of his mask met his forehead, leaving him too woozy to stand immediately.

Rincewind righted himself unsteadily and wobbled in place, staring in disbelief at the man behind him.

The Servants of the Roundworld tensed. Clearly, this opponent was stronger than they suspected, having taken out Assassin in one swing. "Spectacular!" beamed Iskander. "I knew Rider would never lose to an Assassin!"

Rincewind gulped. Since the form of Assassin was partially obscured by his body, he was the only one who could hear and out of the corner of his eye, see the little twitches and scrapes that meant the man was going to be standing up in short order.

Here we break the narrative once more to explain what EX-rank Luck is. EX as a statistic simply means that the parameter under question is 'off the charts'. It cannot be accurately measured or compared on a scale; it simply baffles belief. The problem with this, of course, is that it doesn't say what level of 'off the charts' it is. 200 degrees is EX for a thermometer as much as 2000. Rincewind's luck, for example, was the sort of EX that would be EX even if the scale was designed to measure EX.

Far across the city, in coincidentally the exact same distance from the centre but on the opposite side, a goat was tied to a stick and hung across a fire. The goat wasn't particularly magical, and neither was the fire, but a random stray wisp of ambient magic (perhaps from a passing whisper of the Grail) grabbed on to the goat's desire to live. "Baaaaa." said the goat. _I want to live! I can't die here!_

Octarine flared into life, and Rincewind found himself standing on a fire for a brief second before he jumped out of it yelling incoherently and patting at his robes.

"Oh, hello, Rincewind, you old rat." said a familiar voice. "Told you he'd turn up. He always does. What'd you do with our lunch, then?"

Across the city, the goat found itself staring at seven (well, six and one prone) figures. "Baaaaa." it said. _Oh, bugger._

* * *

 **Reviews are what I subsist on!**


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